


Putting It All Together

by les_damsel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Heartbreak, Inspired by Sunday in the Park with George, M/M, Romance, Set in 1884 Paris France
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:53:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4570428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/les_damsel/pseuds/les_damsel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft felt for his art, but could he feel for someone else?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Putting It All Together

It was unusually hot for a Spring Sunday. The sun shined down over the park and reflected over the water beautifully. It was the perfect background for a painting, which Mycroft Holmes wanted to take full advantage of. Sitting by a tree with good shading from the hot rays of the sun, Mycroft set up his canvas and ordered his model to stand in the sun, face forward and turn his head slightly towards the water.

The model obliged, despite being forced into the sun while he also had to wear a suit with thick fabric. It was much too early to be up on a Sunday, but there was nothing he could do about that now. After standing posed for a few minutes, sweat began to trickle down, a few of his curls sticking to his forehead.

“Mycroft, why is it you always get to sit in the shade while I have to stand in the sun?” 

“God, it’s so hot…”

“Don’t move, Gregory.”

Greg huffed, but resisted the temptation to move and adjust the clothing. Now the fabric was sticking to his back as his sweat spread to more areas of his body. He was glad that they were still the only people at the park and that no one had started arriving yet.

“It’s hot and I look ridiculous. The sun is blinding me.” Greg complained more, turning his head to look at Mycroft, hoping to get some sympathy.

“Look out at the water - not at me.” Mycroft said, gesturing his free hand towards the lake. With a short huff, Greg turned back around and looked on. Though he was merely used as a prop, he appreciated being used by such a talented man. His infatuation with Mycroft started out innocently, admiring the mans work from a far. But as he caught the eye of the artist and they bonded closely, his infatuation turned into much more. However, Mycroft was obsessed with his work - always have been. Nothing and no one ever came before the art but Greg wanted to be that exception and in some lucky cases, he was. 

Still, Mycroft put all of his energy into his work and always locked himself away in his studio. It was always endless work for the man, since nothing was ever perfect. Greg believed he was that perfect thing in the artist’s life, since Mycroft never wanted to change him. Though he could be cold and distant, Greg knew the other cared about him. Caring could be an advantage sometimes.

The sun got hotter and the feeling of lightheadedness hit Greg. He had forgotten to eat anything for breakfast so his stomach was cramping up and the fabric sticking to his skin had started to itch. Slowly, he began to lift his arm…

“Don’t lift the arm, please.” Mycroft held a hand up, as if to halt Greg’s movement.

“Concentrate…” Greg told himself, not wanting to ruin anything. 

Soon, park regulars began showing up. Bathers come and hop instantly into the lake. An quarrelsome old woman and her son soon follow behind, walking towards their regular tree which is opposite of Mycroft’s spot. The woman is ranting on about how loud the bathers while her son was staring at a man that has caught his eye: a coachman named John. 

Greg tried to stay in his peace of mind, but the people walking by him and their snide remarks about him made him frustrated which caused him to scowl a bit.

“Fix your face, Gregory. It messes with what I’ve already sketched so far.”

A wealthy couple walk casually around the park, giggling with each other here and there. Seeing Mycroft, they make their way over to him and peek at what is on his canvas. “This one looks quite good, Mycroft.” The man says, causing Mycroft to stop what he’s doing and turn around. 

“Thank you, Phillip. That actually means a lot -“

“Though, there is something missing.” The woman next to Anderson added, cutting Mycroft off. 

“Ah, yes.” Anderson looked closer and clicked his tongue. “There’s no life in the sketch. No presence at all. But it is a step up from your previous work.”

“Have you been working on anything lately, Phillip?” Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Actually, I haven’t. I decided to take a short break from art to spend some time with the family. She absolutely loathes when I spend so much time in the studio.” He said, looking over at his wife as she chuckled and nodded in agreement. 

“We’ll leave you then, to keep on doing what you were doing. Farewell, Mycroft.” Anderson nodded before him and his wife walked over to their coachman John to drag him away from the young man he was now having a conversation with. 

Greg finally gets tired of standing in the sun and being laughed at. “I’m leaving.” He said, moving to take off the jacket and undo the buttons of the waist coat.

“But I haven’t finished yet!” Mycroft exclaimed, turning his head back towards Greg. 

“It’s hot and these clothes are sticking to me. I haven’t even eaten today! I’m going home.” He concluded, and began stomping away before he stopped. “Are you still taking me to the Follies tonight?” 

Mycroft sighed, but nodded. “Yes, I still plan on taking you to the Follies. I did promise you, after all.” 

Greg smiled at Mycroft, now able to leave the park in happier mood.

Not having a model anymore, Greg took his canvas and stood up. He saw the old woman sitting alone now and decided to walk over. 

“Would you mind if I sketched you?” He asked her, already sitting down beside her.  
“And who might you be?” The lady asked in a nasty tone, eyeing Mycroft suspiciously.

“I’m your son, mother.” He stated plainly, rolling his eyes.

“Oh. If that’s the case, then no. You can not sketch me.” He said bluntly, turning to face away from Mycroft. 

With a huff, Mycroft gets up and just decides to exit the park. The old woman’s son comes back to sit with the old woman, asking if she knew who that man was.

“You do realize that was Mycroft?”

“I know who he was, Sherlock. He was Mycroft, but not the Mycroft I once knew.”


End file.
